


now will not be with us forever

by moonseul



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Character Study, Coming of Age, First Kiss, First Meeting, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Kerberos Mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:27:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23376871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonseul/pseuds/moonseul
Summary: You meet the boy, you grow up with this boy, and you don’t know what it’s like to live without him.In which James deals with a new cadet, his insecurities, and how to appropriately say, "I think you fly good."
Relationships: James Griffin/Ryan Kinkade, minor Keith/Shiro
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	now will not be with us forever

**Author's Note:**

> guess what i found in my folders! an unfinished wip from 2018... hope you can't tell where i picked off ;)  
> highkey james has always been a hottie, and i wanted to write something to explore his character more -- there's always a story behind shitty behavior sometimes. and of course, there's always gotta be a little sheith in everything ʘ ͜ʖ ʘ

In one way or another, the story always begins with a boy.

The day Kinkade enrolls into Galaxy Garrison is the same day another cadet from his class washes out of the program. It’s the third one since the beginning of the school year, and he had watched his class size dwindle one by one until the commanders decided, probably, that a replacement was imperative. 

He sizes the new kid up as Commander Iverson leads him to the front of the classroom. The boy’s a little gruff - he doesn’t look anyone in the eye, but not because he is afraid. He’s staring right past all six rows of students, right through the back wall and beyond that. The boy fills out his uniform all right, his shoulders tall and broad, his hands clasped firm in front of his abdomen. And the thing that alarms Griffin is that Kinkade’s stoic front does not stand out like a sore thumb. At all. The Garrison already has a lone wolf. Now, there are two.

This is a problem for Griffin. His eyes shift to Keith sitting at the other end of the row, where he catches Keith sharpening his pencil with a small penknife, which -  _ wait, how’d he get a hold of that? _

“Kinkade might be joining the class a little late, but he is a fast learner. I expect everyone here to extend a helping hand, should the cadet request any assistance,” Commander Iverson closes the little speech, punctuating with a loud clap of his hand on Kinkade’s shoulder. Kinkade does not flinch.

_ Great _ .

James slides into the cafeteria bench more forcefully than intended, his cup of jelly tipping over onto his meatloaf.

“Melodramatic,” Rizavi quips.

He grunts in response and shoves what is left of his dessert back into the cup.

“I just don’t see why we need a new cadet.”

“Well, with the attrition rate we’re experiencing it would make sense to keep the numbers stable, even if it means enrolling a new student late,” Leifsdottir answers. James glares at Leifsdottir, yet again the voice of reason.

He shoves a chunk of meatloaf into his mouth so he doesn’t have to speak.

In the window between Rizavi’s and Leifsdottir’s heads, he spots Kinkade exiting the cafeteria line. Kinkade glances left and right, barely looking lost in the sea of students. There is some unspoken fixed arrangement in the cafeteria that one has to figure out. The three of them - Griffin, Kizavi, and Leifsdottir - had claimed the small table in the east corner. The mechanics always sit together in the west corner, small prototypes taking centerpiece on their table. 

But not everyone fits in like that - one of the mechanics, Hunk, sits with Lance, another cadet in his class who will never stop talking about his goal to become a fighter pilot. Some people believe in innate talent. Some believe in hard work. Lance can believe in whatever he wants to believe in.

And then there’s Keith, sitting alone at his usual table, until he is joined by Shiro, Matt, and Adam, all three senior cadets.

Kinkade ignores all options and sits alone.

In the last five minutes of P.E., James gets called aside. They’re doing cool down stretches when he hears his name called, and lifts his head to meet the beckoning hand of the lieutenant-in-charge.

He jogs over, still panting.

“Griffin, I’m going to have you spend some time with Cadet Kinkade over here, maybe show him a little of what you know about combat and flight control. Just to get him up to speed.”

His chest is heaving. Still. He’s not sure  _ why  _ him.

“Our senior cadets are pretty tied up at the moment-” Actually, James can easily name an exception, “-but we think you have a good grasp on the material and the best discipline among your class. You would be a good example for Kinkade to learn from.”

James’ back straightens, his rosy cheeks aglow not only from the heat, but also from the praise. Kinkade, standing face to face, extends his hand, and James takes it.

They arrange a time to meet after class the next day. James gets to the simulation room five minutes early, but Kinkade is already outside waiting.

“Did you wait long?” James asks, surprised.

Kinkade shakes his head.

James ducks into the pod, hearing Kinkade follow behind him. Kinkade doesn’t say much - in fact, he hasn’t said anything since the beginning - and James doesn’t know what to think of that, if any of it is intentional, like he’s putting on a front.

Settled into the pilot’s seat, James powers up a demo for Kinkade to observe. It’s a simple take-off and landing sequence, a much more realistic simulation compared to their original entrance test with hurtling meteorites and what not.

“So I’m going to run through some of these controls before we start,” James begins. Kinkade is scrutinizing all the knobs and switches next to the yoke. “You need to take notes?”

“Nah. I got it in my head.”

Hm.  _ Very well _ .

James reads like a textbook and moves before his words can catch up to him. What Kinkade doesn’t see are the nights in bed he has his eyes closed and his arms propped up under the tented sheets, running through the motions. This is all he’s ever wanted. 

When Kinkade takes the wheel, he takes a minute to figure out how to power on the virtual plane.

“My bad,” he says as soon the plane whirs to life. “Not as easy as you made it look.”

Everything goes smoothly once he’s in the air, holding the yoke with a loose grip, the same way he would drive a car. After a while James stops looking at the screen, the bleak blue sky rippling with clouds on loop, and directs his attention instead to Kinkade. He finds it hard to believe he’s never done this before. 

James loses track of time because at the very next moment, the consoles are beeping, and he’s pretty sure he didn’t miss a thing. Turning back towards the screen, the blue sky is now pulsing purple in a nosedive, before the screen bleeds a bold FAIL.

Kinkade just releases a long breath and lets go of the handles. There is no tantrum, no punching. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes, looking directly at James for the first time. James feels his lungs catch in his throat.

“I just wanted to see how far I could go.”

He invites Kinkade to join them for lunch the next day. And the day after that as well.

“Should we invite him too?” Kinkade asks, growing hesitant as James’ frown deepens with every word. He is pointing at Keith at the north corner of the cafeteria, where he has his hand propping up his chin, while the other lazily shuffles food around his tray.

“Why?” James grimaces.

Kinkade shrugs.

“Well. In case you haven’t noticed, Keith doesn’t need the company of us lowly cadets. I think he’s doing fine on his own over there.”

Kizavi slurps on her chicken noodle soup loudly, waving her spoon as she says, “Geez, don’t get him started or he won’t shut up.”

James having a problem with Keith is an understatement. Keith doesn’t exactly antagonize him, besides that punch that one time, but it’s his entire ethos that rubs James the wrong way. He’s lazy, insubordinate, and uncooperative. He excels without trying, even with all of that stacked against him. Scratch that. There’s nothing in his way. What infuriates him most is the unwavering attention he receives from Shirogane, the face of the academy. Commander Iverson might as well have both his eyes closed.

James doesn’t look at any of his friends until they’re done eating. His eyes meet Kinkade’s when they stand to put away their trays. For just a split second, almost, Kinkade’s face softens.

Maybe he gets it too.

Kinkade catches up quickly with the extra help. Every item on the checklist has been struck off, leaving combat practice for last. It’s not something James particularly adores - he came to Galaxy Garrison to fly, not fight. But for what it’s worth, he supposes, self-defense could come in handy with Keith in his squadron.

“I know a little about combat,” Kinkade offers, circling his fists with a dusty white wrap, gray from extensive use. “My dad used to box. Just upper body stuff though.”

“Why’d he stop?” James asks, cracking the sides of his neck as he shifts into position. Kinkade mirrors him, his gaze solid and unafraid.

“Accident. Ain’t as fun boxing with one arm.”

James should probably say something about that, but words are hard, so he just says, “Let’s go.”

Kinkade strikes first, hard and fast, and it catches him by surprise. He puts up a sad excuse for a block, and before he knows it Kinkade has wrestled him to the ground. The grip on his arm is loose and it does not hurt, but the voice by his ear hits him like a bag of bricks.

“Yield.”

_ Yield _ . In Kinkade’s voice, ringing through his mind every time they pass along the hall, every time they meet on the mat.  _ Yield  _ \- never in the sense  _ give up _ \- but yield, as in  _ you can let yourself go _ .

Kinkade is an equal: matched in height ( _ your hair does not count _ ), skill ( _ you wouldn’t think he had a late start _ ), and strength. When James pushes, Kinkade pushes back. At the table, on the sparring floor, there is no such thing as  _ easy _ .

“Do you want to be flight partners?” He’s out of breath, feeling like he’s just sprinted a mile, no, two. They lie with their sticky backs on the mat, bathing under the unfaltering overhead light and the relentless hum of the air-conditioning kicked back to life every five minutes.

Kinkade rolls his head to the side, his lopsided grin growing with gravity, “Yeah.”

Now, under the weight of Kinkade’s quiet understanding, James realizes what it’s like to have someone have his back. Kizavi and Leifsdottir, they’re reliable, but Kinkade is different. Kinkade gets him without needing an explanation. It’s this connection that makes flying together easy, the time in the cockpit a comfortable silence - warm and blooming, as if incubating something precious. Their partner flight scores top the charts, and James has never felt more in control of his destiny.

That is, until the cohort begins individual fighter pilot simulations and Keith’s score just blows everyone else’s out of the water. James comes in second and it’s not nearly as close. He knows that it’s real because he watches the live feed from the viewing deck and sees Shirog fist punch the air every time Keith dodges something cataclysmic.

This is fine. Keith having Shiro as his sponsor is fine. Keith spending all of lunch with Shiro is fine. But Keith getting extra lessons when he doesn’t need it pisses James the hell off.

They’re walking back from World History when they pass the gym, and James catches through the glass both Keith and Shirog on the mat, along with a small crowd that has formed around him. It takes a couple of steps for Kinkade to realize that James isn’t following.

James’ head snaps towards him, “Come on, let’s spar.”

Kinkade looks back at him from a distance, James’ body thinner and smaller under the white, sterile lighting, and the too big uniform, where his shoulders have yet to fill out. “What?” Kinkade asks, and then looks down at the clothes on his body. “Dude, I don’t even have my gym shorts.”

“So go get them, and meet me back here,” James responds.

Once Kinkade leaves, he slides into the gym, rushes to get changed, and stumbles out onto the combat floor before their fight is over. He doesn’t elbow his way through the crowd - that would be  _ desperate  _ \- so he settles by the bench press rack, where he’s still able to get a decent view of the match.

Keith is agile, quick-thinking, built from years of picking fights, probably, and this gives Shiro a hard time figuring out how Keith moves. He ends up winning with sheer strength. 

The half-hearted slap on his shoulder jolts him out of attention.

“What are you doing here? You’re too weak for this bench shit.”

James scoffs and pushes himself upright. He doesn’t have a good comeback because it’s true. He let’s Kinkade have this small victory, and ignores the smug grin on Kinkade’s face as he saunters onto the mat. The crowd has begun to disperse, leaving a few cadets orbiting around Shiro like flies that don’t know when to quit.

“Come on, I’ve been restless all day. Let’s get a good one in.” James gives his shoulders a crack, shaking out the tension that’s been building in his muscles.

Kinkade raises his fists in front of his face.  _ Whenever you’re ready _ . He barely avoids James’ first kick, but he catches on quickly, and by the fourth miss, taunts, “Getting predictable, Griffin.”

James’ hears laughter - not Kinkade, not with his lips pressed tight like that - and before he knows it he’s on his back, dull pain blooming up his back and to his head, his mind drawing into itself, into silence that has him all the more aware of the shush of the gym doors swinging close, Shirogane’s muted laughter, and the harsh beams from the overhead light, slowly eclipsed by the Kinkade’s silhouette.

James is squinting at Kinkade, this unwavering figure, the cutting lines of his cheekbones and face cast in shadow, only to meet his eyes, wide and assuming. 

“You’re distracted. What gives?”

He’s panting, his mouth clogged with the spit that’s pooled at the back of his throat. When he tries to jerk out of it, his wrists meet Kinkade’s resistance.

“Let go of me,” James seethes. When he pushes, Kinkade pushes back. “Oh yeah? Not until you tell me what it is.”

“You,” he spits, and Kinkade releases his grip, almost throws it back with much more strength than James had expected, leaving him still on the ground even after Kinkade’s climbed off him. He rotates his wrists to relieve the pain.  _ Fuck _ .

Kinkade pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. “You know, you always get like this. What the fuck is your problem?”

James balks at the accusation, “What the fuck is  _ your _ problem, Kinkade?”

Kinkade shakes his head, even chuckling a little, because it would be funny if James still doesn’t get it. “No, no, let’s start with you Griffin. What’s your deal with Keith?” 

“What do you mean,  _ what’s my deal with Keith _ ?” James retorts, knowing full well what Kinkade means - the impulsive anger, the tunnel vision when he fixates on everything that’s wrong with the world. “He doesn’t deserve to be here, and you know it.”

Kinkade genuinely looks confused. “The fuck’s that got to do with you? You jealous Lieutenant Shirogane doesn’t notice you?”

James pushes his finger into Kinkade’s chest to make his point. “He doesn’t look at any of us. Me  _ and _ you. Period.”

“Does that matter to you?” Kinkade asks, and after months of spending time with him, James would think that his silence would be easier to understand than words. Slowly, he mutters, “I look at you.”

And James - he doesn’t know what that means, but he knows, “That doesn’t count.” The patch of skin on his wrists, rubbed the wrong way, fuel the flames. He knows Kinkade. He knows what will make him hurt more. 

“You won’t get me to where I want to be.”

James tosses in bed out of guilt, more than he’d like to admit.  _ Does that matter to you? _

He thinks of Kinkade’s face, slow-moving like he’s stuck in a simulation. It cracks for a moment, imperceptibly, but the illusion is broken. He’s shaking his head. He leaves.

The next day, Kinkade strolls up to their table in the cafeteria and slides into his chair. Leifsdottir or Rizavi don’t know what happened — James’ not one to pour his problems onto his friends — and Kinkade’s acting like nothing’s happened.

Rizavi makes a snarky comment about something she overheard in the bathroom and Leifsdottir pretends to care. She’s never been very interested in meaningless gossip, but she listens because she knows Rizavi’s happy when she has an audience.

“Here,” Kinkade’s voice cuts through James’ thoughts, low but clear. “You can have these.”

James watches Kinkade spoon baked beans onto his tray. He does this several times too, making sure he gets all the tomato gravy onto his plate.

“Gross,” Kinkade mutters when he’s finished, meeting his eye. “I know you like those, you sick freak.”

“I…” James starts, but finds no words. His head’s swimming with them though. How can Kinkade look at him like that, calm and restrained? He’s always been good at hiding any emotions on his face. In fact, it had always been James’ personal pride to get any reaction out of him, a small smirk, a suppressed chortle, and at his best, a lopsided grin. 

Or, he doesn’t even feel anything. The words that were meant to sting did absolutely nothing. Words that, to James himself, would have cut and wrung him dry. Rivazi’s laughing now, god knows what it’s about, Leifsdottir and Kinkade are paying attention, and  _ god _ , James feels so alone right now. He’s swimming, down the depths, and all of a sudden he feels like he can’t breathe.

“Excuse me,” he pushes himself up to escape, and runs to the bathroom before the rest of them have time to react.

James has his hands wrapped around the edge of the bathroom basin when he sees Kinkade in the mirror’s reflection. He just stands there with his hands crossed, leaning against the cubicle frame.

“You good?” He asks, once James’ gaze lands on him. He’s looking back.

_ I look at you. _

James’ mouth gets ahead of him, “Aren’t you mad at me?”

Kinkade cocks his head, the cheeky little bastard. “No, not really.”

James lets his head dip, chin to his chest, and watches the water swirl down the sink. “I kind of wish you were, Ryan,” he admits a beat later. He shies away from the heat of Kinkade’s gaze. The heat prickling up his spine is of a different sort.

“Anger’s not the only emotion you’re allowed to feel, you know,” Kinkade says easily. 

Biting his bottom lip, James turns back to face him. His eyes are soft, worried. His lips press into a firm line. 

“I…” James struggles.  _ I don’t understand how you can’t be mad at me. I don’t know why you want to stick around. _ “I’m sorry,” is what he eventually lets out. It feels like his ribs have been cracked open.

“Hey, man,” Kinkade says, coming close, bumping his knuckles against James’. The quiet, fleeting touch sends James reeling — not because he’s never touched the other before, but because this is different. He’s had his chest pressed against the other’s in a spar, but never this.

“I got your back,” Kinkade finishes, and leaves it like that.

James knocks his knuckles back. “We still flight partners?” He asks, hesitantly.

“Yeah,” Kinkade scoffs, after the whole exchange. “We’re still friends, Griffin.”

Life goes on. World History is a drag and Keith is still topping the flight sims scores, but at least the cafeteria’s been serving baked beans three days in a row.

“They’re getting sloppy man,” Kinkade complains, slapping his serving of mush onto James’ tray.

After the incident, the gears seem to have shifted. Kinkade talks to him more now, in private, at least. He still doesn’t give a shit about Rivazi’s bathroom gossip. But when they’re in between moments — in the locker room, walking between classes — he asks James how he’s feeling, and doesn’t let up when all James cares to say is  _ fine _ .

He knows what Kinkade’s trying to make him do. “Talking about your feelings” has never been anyone’s favorite activity, especially so for James, since his words sound ugly every time they come out of his mouth, but he likes to think that it’s helping.

“It’s not a competition, you don’t have to be the best, y’know,” Kinkade would remind him, time and time again. “We didn’t join the Garrison to be superstars. And besides, all the stars shine ‘bout the same to me at night. No one gives a shit about how big and bright they are.”

James would pull away, scandalized. “I can’t believe you’re saying that right now. You’re at the Garrison.”

They spar. Kinkade wins. James enjoys the weight on his chest for as long as he can.

The hot puffs of air on his nape do nothing to tame his wildly beating heart. He’s boxed in between Kinkade’s arms, but this is okay. Kinkade can come closer. Beads of sweat are teetering on the edges of Kinkade’s cheek bones, and James entertains, briefly, the thought of licking it.

That thought immediately goes straight to his dick, which to his dismay is pressed against Kinkade’s thigh, and the message is loud enough to make Kinkade’s grip slack, giving James an opening to flip him on his back.

“Yield,” he grits, holding Kinkade’s arms above his head, and Kinkade is grinning, knowing who’s really won.

“Eyes on me,” Kinkade teases, right before he steps into the flight sim. He catches James by the arm when he exits, letting it linger for a bit.

“Yeah,” James blinks.  _ Of course _ .

They run the simulations in batches — Kinkade goes in with seven others, sliding into the seat James was last in. James watches from the viewing bay, which has all eight screens projected on the wall. Most of the other cadets are watching Keith’s screen, but James’ eyes are on Kinkade.  _ I taught him that _ , he thinks proudly when the plane pulls back and expertly dodges an incoming missile. Then, to shake free of target lock, Kinkade pulls off a loop, to his surprise. His score edges past James’ and continues to soar, but he doesn’t feel bitter about it, no—

“Better watch your back, Kinkade,” he’s smirking when the other steps out. “I’m going to catch up.”

It’s a game of push and pull between the two of them, more than James would like to admit. Spring bleeds into summer seamlessly in arid Arizona, and before he knows it summer break is upon them. Luckily for both of them, there is no such thing as summer break at the Garrison, in the traditional sense. There’d be bonfires and day trips to Lake Pleasant to go fishing, but there’d also be afternoons in the sims — unstructured time for some fun runs and experimentation. Maybe he’d go home, for a weekend or two, but Kinkade would be here when he’d get back.

“They’re picking a pilot for the Kerberos mission next school year,” James comments, kicking a stray pebble on the Garrison rooftop. It skittles across the tiles, just stopping before the edge.

“Probably Shiro,” Kinkade shrugs, because it’s obvious.

“It’ll be us, one day,” James points out. In a near future, they’d be flying actual planes, pulling barrels and splits and yo-yos. He imagines the real weight of the yoke under his palms, the rumbling of the engine under his feet.

“It’ll be pretty boring, I bet,” Kinkade jokes. “Collecting samples and shit.”

“What,” James punches the boy’s shoulder playfully, “you’d rather be in a war or something?”

Kinkade chuckles, low and inviting, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet with his hands stuffed in his blazer pockets. Under the brazen shade of sunset, his skin radiates warmth. The gentle slope of his nose meets his lips, which are now spread into a wide grin, only because James had suggested something ridiculous.

James chooses now to say it, “I think… you fly… good.”

_ Ah, shit _ .

Kinkade raises his brows. “What?”

“I…” James flusters, cheeks numb. “You’re smart. You don’t need me to spell it out.”

“Hmm,” Kinkade contemplates, coming closer until there’s no room to run away from this feeling. “I’d still like to hear it.”

James averts his gaze when he mumbles a quick  _ ilikeyou _ , holding his breath as he waits for the boy’s response. Kinkade’s hand envelops his own, the small calluses on his fingertips brushing over his knuckles. 

They stay like this for a long time, long after the sun’s disappeared down the horizon, and the measured weight of the other’s palm feels part of him now.

He occasionally slips small sideways glances at Kinkade, just to make sure it’s all real.

“I know what you’re trying to do, Griffin, and you’re not being subtle ‘bout it,” Kinkade mentions, at right about the seventh glance.

“What?” James panics momentarily, almost pulling away, but Kinkade keeps their hands linked and pulls him in for a quick kiss on the lips. It’s light, and already gone. James can only lean back in for seconds.

“Where do you want to be?” Kinkade asks innocently, standing at the door of their new shared room for the next school year. He’s looking at the upper and bottom bunk. Neither seem particularly appealing to him, so he lets James have first pick.

James is distracted, clearly, what with Kinkade’s hand in his back pocket. Bunk beds aren’t even at the top of his mind right now. The only thing he’s occupied with is the excitement of what’s to come.

“Anywhere, anywhere where you are,” he decides on that.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on twitter! @refois


End file.
